The Stolen Prince
by owls-and-asters
Summary: Henry, Duke of Cornwall died in 1511, or so it was claimed. But what if the prince had really been stolen by an enemy of Katherine of Aragon? The year is 1526, and a young Henry returns to court as a servant after learning of his true parentage. But how can young Henry convince the world that he is the true prince of England? And how will this change the lives of his parents?
1. Pilot

_Hello there fanfiction! Welcome to the Pilot chapter of a story I hope to pick up and finish someday. Do not get your hopes up for a second chapter very soon, as this is just a sample of what I may want to write later on in the future. My focus is still very set on my other story._

_So please do not get mad if I don't update this one for a very long time, I just wanted all of you to read it and tell me what you think about it before I even begin to write another chapter. This idea would not leave me alone, and I just needed to put it out somehow and see if anyone else thought it was a good idea to continue._

_Am I making any sense? I hope I am. Anyways, without any further a do, I present to you my story **'The Stolen **_**_Prince_'** _in it's Pilot chapter._

* * *

It was a dark, cloudy night. There was not a single thing to be heard other than the wails of a baby boy and the loud sound of horse hooves. The baby's captors had tried everything to hush him. He was not just any baby boy after all. He was Henry, Duke of Cornwall, the son of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon. He was precious cargo, he was dangerous cargo.

If anyone ever found them with the young prince in their arms, they would be tortured to the extend of terror. That is not to say that stopped them from stealing the boy and placing a dead, pseudo 'prince' in his place. They were getting paid real good money for this, they were going to be wealthy for this!

"How much long until we reach the village?" Susan Greene asked her husband.

"Not much longer Susan, just please make the boy stop crying, if anyone were to find us, we'd be placed on a stake before tomorrow's nightfall." Susan did everything to calm the baby. She rocked him. She sang him a lullaby. But it was to no avail, the stolen prince continued to cry until he fell asleep from all his wailing half way through their journey.

It was nearing dawn when they reached their tired village. Manchester had a good semi-stable community, but it was not as great as the grand city of London, or even the towns of York or Canterbury. Susan held on the little bundle tightly as she and George exited their carriage quietly and quickly rushed into their home. As promised there was a purse of coins on their table. Never had they wanted to be traitors, especially not to the gracious Queen Katherine, but they were in desperate need of money, and of a son.

The queen could always have more children, but Susan could never bear another child again. This baby boy was the answer to all their questions. They felt sorry for what they did, but decided it had been God's way.

Susan strode to the other side of the room to where the bassinet of that had belonged to her own, now dead, baby boy. She felt tears sting in her eyes. That was the baby they had placed in the prince's own bassinet back at Richmond fool an entire country.

As Susan was about to set little Henry down a sense of guilt traveled up her spine. She turned to face her husband. "George, what if they find us? They will kill us!"

George shook his head. "They won't find us. Were protected. That man promised us that, and here's the proof." He pointed the purse of money he held in his other hand. "He hates the Queen, he won't dare say a thing. Besides, we can change our name and move to another town. We're set for life Susan. They can never find us then, and besides, it's too late to turn back."

Susan nodded unsurely. "What about his clothes? What do I do with them?"

George looked at the baby in her arms before walking over. He smiled as he looked down at the innocent little bundle. He had red hair and a round pink face. He would grow up to be very handsome, they both had realized that the minute he had been placed in Susan's arms. But he would grow up to be their son. They had the money to prove that he was theirs, even if he was stolen property.

"Take them off him and sell them. It's no use to him now. He'll grow up to be a Greene, or whatever name we take on later. He's going to be a farm boy, a merchant. He's going to be our son Susan."

She rocked the still sleeping baby in her arms. A tear fell from her left eye. "I just wish our son had lived George, we would never have done this."

"It's God's way, besides we might be doing him a favor. If someone who claims is loyal to the king can go out and sell his future monarch, imagine what else could happen in that court of betrayal."

"But we cannot be his parents George. He looks to different from us. No one will ever believe he is ours."

"Then he'll be our nephew. We'll say his parents died of a terrible fever. We'll move to a new town tomorrow, maybe we'll even leave to the nice countryside somewhere. We'll leave the past behind and begin anew Susan. As a family."

* * *

_15 years later._

There was nothing young Henry Cornwallis could say against his aunt and uncle. They had always been a united little family, even when George had died and their was only Aunt Susan and him left. He had lived a nice childhood in the countryside of Kent, in a nice, mid-size house. As a boy he had gone to school and had excelled in learning Latin and Greek. He found learning to be a passion of his. He had even considered going into the church to learn more about the world and about God himself.

Sadly his studies were cut short when his Uncle George died suddenly when he was thirteen. It was the end of many things for young Henry. It was the end of a paternal figure, it was the end of a comforting, guiding wisdom, and the end of a source of income for both him and his Aunt.  
He had to grow up and mature then. He became a man of work. He worked with a blacksmith, then as a lumberjack, before he became carpenter. He often liked to boast how he had a talent for carving the most intricate and detailed work.

But today there was no boasting for Henry. Instead there was grief. His beloved Aunt was on the verge of death and Henry's world was collapsing around him. He had cried and prayed all night long that God may grant the miracle of saving his Aunt Susan from death somehow. But it was no use, her fever had worsened and there was nothing he, or any of the apothecary's could do about it now.

But he kneeled at his Aunt's bedside nonetheless, he owed her that much for having taken care of him all those years.

"Oh Aunt Susan, why you? Please don't leave me," he muttered into the bitter night air. Susan gave a sputtering cough. Weakly she brought a hand up to Henry's cheek before letting it fall back down limply against the white sheets. Henry took hold of her limp, feverish hand and squeezed it.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. Susan said nothing. She merely croaked out a groan. Henry stood to reach for the cloth inside the cool water. He fumbled as he placed it on her forehead. "Please Aunt Susan, say just one last thing to me."

With that Susan's glossy eyes turned to face him. She took him in and tried to smile. He was ever so handsome, just like his father, his real father. She mentally shook her head. If there was ever a time to tell him the truth about everything it was now. The truth that had plagued her for so many years. The truth, she decided, that was the death of her.

"Henry," she croaked out, "come closer."

Henry leaned in and a tear fell of his cheek. "Yes, Aunt Susan?"

"Your are not … what you think you are," she sputtered as she gave another cough. "Your are not just a … farm boy. You … are … much more."

Henry chuckled despite himself, "I know Aunt Susan, I am a carpenter, the best, you ought to know that," he teased trying to make it seem like a much happier moment. Like if this was just another conversation at their little kitchen table.

"No," she weakly shook her head. "You .. are … the son of …." She gave another whopping cough. "You are the son of … the queen!" she declared with the strongest whisper she could muster.

Henry shook his head, "No Aunt Susan, I'm the son of Maud Greene, your sister, not _the queen_."

"No!" She shook her head with a strong conviction. She weakly picked up her hand to point to an old bedside table. "In there, the … third drawer … there is your truth! You are …. Henry … Duke of .. Cornwall …"

Her glossy eyes closed and with one last cough Susan Cornwallis as Henry had grown up knowing her, took her final breath and fell into the deepest of slumbers. With that Henry lost it. Always having been a boy of strong emotions, and there was nothing that stopped him from letting out a strong wail of agony. He cried from deep inside his heart as he clutched his dead Aunt's cold hand. When the Cornwallis' neighbors came in later that morning it took almost three men to pry the young Henry off the side of his Aunt's bed where he had buried his head in to cry.

For weeks he had been inconsolable. His only escape and therapy was his work in which he concentrated on to distract his mind from all the grief he felt. His life was torn, he was no longer able to depend on anyone but himself. He no longer went home to see his Aunt's kind face, or hear her mouse-like voice comfort him. He went home to an empty house. To a pit of loneliness.

He had little friends. No one had ever really talked to him. He was different, he had never quite fit in. With his reddish hair and elegant features and impressive height he stood out from the harsh, ruddy-faced, and short young men in the town.

Tonight he had gone home from work early. Mr. Johnson's shop had closed up earlier than usual. So he found himself sitting outside his lonely little country house looking up at the newly forming stars when he wished he could have been concentrating on cutting wood or doing anything else than being home where his sadness felt rawer than ever.

As he looked up, he counted the stars just as he had done so ever since he had learned how to count. He counted fifty before he gave up. He knew it was impossible to count all the stars in the sky. Just when you thought you had finished one section, dozens of more dots would pop up only to mess up your count.

He sighed as he stood up and dusted the dirt of his trousers. He took off his boots before he walked in. They were muddy and he felt that it would be better if he kept the floors as neat as possible. There was no one to clean up after him anymore.

He begrudgingly walked into his room and lay gingerly on his bed. He just lay there motionless for what seemed like an eternity, he didn't even try to go to sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday and there was no work. He wouldn't go to church either. Although religious, he had distanced himself from everything these past few weeks. He needed to keep it that way until he felt ready to face Kent again.

"It's no use after all," he muttered to himself, "The only thing I'll get are sympathies. I'd rather live on silence than on sympathies."

He rubbed his temples as he turned to his side and began to remember Aunt Susan's last night. He tried everything to block the thoughts but couldn't find something else to distract him. His walls were bare and desolate, there was nothing he could fixate his mind on. So instead he replayed the memories in his head as he softly began to sob. Then something in his memories caught his attention.

He replayed the part of his Aunt's hazy declaration. _'"You are the son of …. The queen!"_ she had declared.

He chuckled through a sob, he was pretty sure she meant to say Maud Greene. Aunt Susan had always had the habit of confusing things, especially during the later part of her years, so he hadn't really given her words then much of a thought. However, he continued on from there until he reached her last words to him.

_"In there, the … third drawer … there is your truth! You are … Henry .. Duke of … Cornwall,"_ she had said with strong conviction, as if she were saying the truth. Henry tilted his head in thought. Although there was no way he was anywhere near a Duke let alone a low Baron, he still wondered what she meant by saying the third drawer held his truth. He hadn't even bothered to look there, let alone enter her room after she had died.  
But his curiosity got the best of him and he slowly got up and walked towards the room he had not dared to enter in almost two months.

'My 'truth' is in there,' he thought, 'but what truth? I'm just the son of Thomas and Maud Greene, nephew and adopted son to George and Susan Cornwallis, maybe she meant an inheritance as my truth?'

As he reached his late aunt's door, he slowly turned the knob and opened the door before peering in. Everything was the same as she had left it, save for the sheets. Those had been replaced by the tedious Mrs. Hutchinson, the only neighbor whom he favored.

He cautiously walked in, his footsteps loud and clunky as the moved towards the bedside table. Carefully he pulled the drawer by the old rusted handle and looked inside to find a letter and a pair of baby clothes with a piece of fabric that appeared to be a blanket made of fine red velvet.

"Well isn't this fancy," he said as he picked it up, "if this is my truth, then it's worth something. I wonder how much it would sell for."

He turned it around to examine it, as he lifted a fold he found a rather tiny "H&K" embroidered on the back. "That's odd," he mumbled into the air, "where'd they get this from? It looks old, but expertly embroidered, no way Aunt Susan did this … These aren't even her initials. Hmm, maybe they belonged to another family member?"

He placed the velvet blanket on the floor besides him as he moved back to pick up the baby clothes. They were small, like if they were for a newborn, and like the blanket, they looked rich and important, like the clothes of a fine nobleman. They were made of warm, fine wool, dyed in deep indigo. Tiny little pearls were stitched to the bottom and top of the little robe, the sleeves held ruffles made of fine silk.

He made a clicking sound with his lips. "This is worth something! Why didn't Aunt Susan sell these earlier! We could have lived good for some time." Like the velvet blanket before him he placed it on the floor. His final reach was for the letter. It was old and torn, and on the inside was the messy hand of his Uncle. He moved to lean back against the bedside table before beginning to read the letter.

"Dear Henry," it began,

"If you are reading this that means that both your Aunt and I have passed on. Do not think of us as any less for what I am about to reveal to you.

It was a dark night, I recall, when you first came into our lives. You were so handsome even then, your Aunt just knew you would grow up to be a fine lad. And she was right. Henry, I loved you like my own flesh and blood. I always tried to provide the best for you, as did Susan. Never would we ever wish that anything bad were to ever happen to you. Your Aunt Susan wanted to tell you this sooner, so that it would have been easier, but alas, it was my fear that kept me from letting her. I realize now that, I should have never done what I did, but that does not change all those years of love and care that we gave to you. We love you Henry, we always have, you may have not been our son, but you were our boy.

Well, here it goes. Henry … You are not the son of Maud and Thomas Greene. Neither are you our nephew or anywhere near our kin. Nor is our own last name Cornwallis, we were George and Susan Greene and we were paid to steal something a long time ago. It was never in our intentions to hurt who we did. We thought it was God's way then, but we were wrong.  
It was you who we stole Henry. We stole you from your rightful place, from your rightful life, and we stole your from your rightful parents. But, let me make this clear, it was not us who stole you first, it was a man whose name I cannot mention, but who hated your real mother passionately. If you were to ever return to your real parents I would advise you keep a lookout for him. He is not to be trusted though he is favored by your real father.

Henry, I cannot stall you any longer from reading the truth. I must say it now. Do not think that we are delusional, or even crazy, because this is the truth in its most honest form. And if you need more proof of it, check the fourth drawer, it should confirm what I have said, and give you an easier time without either I or Susan.  
Without anymore delay I must declare that, you my boy, are the son of the King and Queen of England. You are Henry, Duke of Cornwall, the Stolen Prince."

* * *

_So ... what'd you guys think? Was it good, bad, horrible, or just plain 'what the heck was this girl thinking?' I'd really like to hear some opinions, good or bad, I wouldn't mind either, just no offensive things guys, only constructive criticism. _

_As always, thank you for anyone who took the time to read to all the way down here, I really appreciate it. _

_- Love, _

_Mimi, owls-and-asters_


	2. The Chest of Fate

Henry's eyes widened in shock. He threw down the letter and shook his head fiercely.

'No, there is no way!' he thought, 'I cannot be the Prince of England! No they're lying, I cannot be …. I cannot be …'

He picked up the letter again an re-read it. He re-read it four more times until the words that were written in ink began to dance in his head taunting him with the possibility of being the truth. He slumped down and began to cry. Burying his head in is hands he refused to believe that his whole life had been a lie. He shook his head again. There was no way he was Henry, Duke of Cornwall. There was no way those clothes and that blanket had once belonged to him. And there was definitely no way his parents were King Henry and Queen Katherine.

But as his tears came to an abrupt stop he picked up the letter and read it again. And again, and again, until on his seventh time reading it, he started to believe what he was reading. The Susan and George he knew had never been liars, they had always told him the truth even if brutal when he had been growing up. He could not imagine why they would keep this from him, if this was his truth. Anger began to boil inside him consuming his thoughts until he got up and punched the wall making a small hole.

"I cannot believe it! Why would they do this? Why! They thought it God's way, but God condemns stealing and lying. Had I known, had I known!" he yelled into the empty space. Remembering the letter, he quickly reached down for the fourth drawer and fiercely opened it. The rusted handle broke off but Henry didn't even notice. His rage had always blinded him, that was one flaw he had never been able to get rid of no matter how desperately he had tried.

As he looked inside the drawer he found twenty-five fine purses of money in an array of silks, velvets, and satin, all either red or purple and tied with a golden string. He picked one up. It was heavy with money. Money that they had been paid to keep him! But if he had to be thankful for something it was that they had left him pretty well-off by the looks of it.

He poked around the first bag and pulled out fifty coins of pure gold and a little note. He unwrapped it quite carefully for having been quite upset and began to read it.

'_Keep him well. Remember who he is, a true Prince. This will sure help.'_ It was written in an elegant scrawl, something that almost made him get up and punch the wall again when he realized that this note had confirmed everything George had claimed and had erased any doubts he had. After all this wasn't written by either George or any another regular townsfolk, the writing was too perfect, to aligned, this was written by the person who had sold him to George and Susan. The first person who had ripped him from his real parents and true life.

"Remember who he is a true Prince," Henry spat disgusted, "they obviously didn't remember, none of them did. It was a lie, my life was a lie!"

He pulled out all the bags of money and angrily placed them next to the blanket and robe. He was going to burn all of this, never in his life did he ever want to see them again. It was a symbol of betrayal by people he thought were trustworthy. As he reached in for the last five bags, he found a piece of parchment neatly folded underneath. He almost felt like leaving it there. If he were to read anything else by a man he once considered his Uncle, he would go into a rampage.

But despite what he felt like doing, he picked it up anyways and read it. To his surprise it was written in the near illiterate hand of Susan. Henry had remembered how Susan had told him that she had never gone to school, and how George had taught her how to read and write. As he read through the letter he knew that was why there were multiple misspellings.

_"Henry,_

_My dear lyttle Henry, I knoe you must be enraged as of ryght now. I understand. But please forgyve us, we always tried to tell you. But fear …. Fear …. It always consumed us. We lyft you all the bags of monie that were payed to us to keep you. We never used a single cent, we promise. We kept it all for you, because we figured that one dai, when our deaths wuld come to take us, the last one lyft wuld tell you. _

_You must understand that we did not do it just for the monie. We did it so that we could have our own chyld. It was wroung of us to do so, but in those moments we did not think. We did not react and step back. We just took you. I fear that we repaied heavily for that sin. _

_That nyght, George told me to get ryd of your clothes, the lyttle robe that by now you have seen. That was the robe in which we took you, and that blanket, it was embroidered by your mothur, Quene Katheryne. Yes Henry, she is your mothur, your real mothur. I'm shure that George already told you that in that first letter that you read. _

_If you were to evur go back to your ryghtful place, I pray that you take those items with you. They will serve you a great deal if you ever met theyre majestyes. And as I'm shure George mentioned, if you were to evur go bakk, please my dear Henry, watch out for the vycyous snakke that payed us to keep you. Alas, I cannot mention hys name, even now I fear that that name is a curse placed upun all of us. I cannot blame hym for takyng you, for that was us, but he was the one who fyrst instilled the idea of the treason we commytted and the one that fyrst placed you in our arms._

_My darlyng, I only want you to know that we always luved you, I always luved you. I was your mothur before I became your Aunt, and before I only became the woman that you now knoe thynk of me as. _

_Do not evur thynk we didn't wysh to tell you, because we did so very much wyth each passyng day. But you must understand that a sword was hung ovur our heads untyl the nyght of our indyvydual deaths._

_ I give you my blessyng dear chyld, even if you do not want it now. May God be wyth you forevur, and may he grant you the ryght of being Kyng._

_ Wyth all my luve and devotion for the true Prynce of England, _

_Susan."_

As he read each word he could hear her voice. He could hear the parts she would have raised her voice at, the parts she would have lowered it, and if the ink stains weren't enough, he could hear the sadness and tears laced through the words.

He had loved her like a mother, he couldn't deny that even in his angry state. He had loved George too. And he looked around, he remembered every day he had spent with them and began to cry. What he felt inside was so confusing, so frustrating for a fifteen year old. He reasoned that in a way he couldn't have wished for better people to have raised him, even if they hadn't been the ones biologically destined to do so.

He could have had it worse, but he didn't. George and Susan could have treated him as a slave and made him work instead of paying and sending him to school. He could have worn tight-fitting clothes and torn boots, but Susan would not allow that as she had been the one to always procure him first and buy him the best things she could. Never once did he remember going hungry, they wouldn't and couldn't allow that, because they had loved him. He would never ever, see them the same way again, but he could never deny that they had not treated him right.

As he let the letter slip through his hands he lowered his gaze to rest on the robe and blanket. Calmly he took a deep breath in and picked up the blanket again. He traced his fingers over the small "H&K"

"Henry & Katherine," he breathed, "it's their initials intertwined." He placed the blanket on his lap and grabbed the robe. He ran his fingers down the fine fabric and gently rubbed each pearl. Tears began to once again form as he thought about the reason Susan hadn't thrown this away or sold it.

Because, as she had claimed, they had always planned on telling him and giving this back, they just never did because they feared death. He heavily sighed. "God, let me have an answer to this," he breathed as he got off the floor and dropped the robe.

He wiped his eyes and ran a hand through his matted hair. He would not go anywhere today as planned. He would just stay home and ponder on what he had just found out. He knew it was the truth, he felt it was the truth, but he would need time to process it. How much time he would need, he did not know, but he would fully, and truly accept this sudden revelation someday.

After all, why would two people go through the time to write him a letter revealing that he was the true Prince of England if their claims were false? Why would his Aunt's, as he considered her then, last words tell him that he was Henry, Duke of Cornwall had it not been the truth? Why would he find a note written in the scrawl of fine nobleman or noblewoman reminding Susan and George of the true prince that he was? And most importantly, why would he have a fine robe died in the color of royalty and a blanket with the king and queen's initials if it were not the truth?

* * *

Two months had passed and Henry still continued to live like a simple country man. During this time he had come to terms that, while yes he was the Duke of Cornwall he had no means as to get anyone to believe him save for that robe and blanket.

He had, however begun to once again involve himself in the daily life of a Kent countryman and had begun going back to church.

Every Sunday as he sat at the reserved Cornwallis family pew, and as he listened to Latin Mass he would mentally pray that God might send him the answer the problem that he now faced. But he knew that somehow, God was going to make everything all and into place, and he was going to make it happen.

And in fact, his prayers were answered on a Thursday morning in a way that Henry did not come to realize until much later.

That morning he was busy working on a new chair for Mrs. Hutchinson, the neighbor whom he now lived with. It had been too painful and too confusing for him to continue living in a place where George and Susan had raised him. It was a battlefield of conflicting emotions in that house, so he had politely asked Mrs. Hutchinson if he could take residence with her, with the promise of caring for her horses and giving her all his wages in exchange for a room and meals.

Mrs. Hutchinson had agreed, seeing as she was a widow and all her children were far away, and had gladly taken Henry in under her wing. It had turned out to be a good arrangement for both. Henry got a 'normal' house along with the opportunity to ride Mrs. Hutchinson's old horses and Mrs. Hutchinson got a sure source of money.

So he thought that making her a new set of chairs that he would give her as a present and would be seen as a sign of gratitude towards her. And frankly, this is what Henry liked to do. He loved his work and took pride in it. So as he worked along on that beautiful March day he didn't notice when a much older and a much more dignified man walked in.

"Excuse me," he began in a smooth voice, "may I know who is in charge of this shop? I have come here in search for a chest for my daughter, and I need to know where the owner keeps his inventory so that I may see if anything is worthy of my daughter's eyes."

Henry looked up and met his steely brown eyes before responding, "Mr. Johnson is in the back, sir. I'll go right away and get him for you."

As Henry turned to leave, the man curiously examined him. There was something about him that seemed familiar, but there was no chance he had ever met the boy before.

Henry walked into the back room just as Mr. Johnson had his hands full of different hammers and a bucket of splintered wood. "Uh, Mr. Johnson," he began, "is this a good time?"

Johnson turned around, "It is not a good time if it's not important, but if it's important then I'll have to make time now won't I Hal?" he dryly joked. Henry chuckled despite not finding it funny. If there was one way to keep Johnson happy, it was by laughing at his attempts to be witty and amusing.

"Well, I'm guessing it's important sir. There's a man outside looking for you. He looks pretty rich by the looks of his clothes. He's asking to see your inventory for a chest, he claims it's for his daughter."

Johnson nodded, two wispy white hairs bouncing as he did so, "Very well then, here hold this Hal," he said as he placed the bucket and hammers into Henry's arms. "Let me go see what he wants. Meanwhile, you go and put those up front on the back counter. Then you can continue doing whatever you were doing before. Unless this man brought several other interested folks along, I'm sure it's going to be a slow day like usual."

Henry nodded and followed Mr. Johnson as they both exited the back room and walked into the main little foyer. Henry did as he was told and placed all the different size and colored hammers on top of the back counter while Mr. Johnson introduced himself to the waiting man.

"Good morning, welcome to Johnson's Woodplace, how may I be of service my good sir?" he asked the man who was curiously inspecting an unfinished miniature wooden boat. The man's eyes slowly moved from the boat to face the dry looking older man.

"Ah, good morning," he began in that smooth voice. "I've come looking for a chest for my daughter, are you the man in charge?" The man eyed Mr. Johnson carefully. He was not used to common folk, but this shopkeeper seemed to be in good shape for one.

Johnson nodded, "Yes sir. A chest you say? Well we have one over there with the rest of my stuff. By the way it's nice to meet you Mr. ….?"

"Boleyn," he responded.

Johnson's eye widened a bit. What was this man doing in town? Sure everyone knew that the Boleyn family took residence at Hever here in Edenbridge, but rarely, if not ever, made an appearance in town.

The shop owner smiled, "Well it's a pleasure to be in your acquaintance Sir Boleyn, if you'll just follow me I'll take you to see the chest." Johnson walked towards the inventory room that was lazily covered by an old curtain. Henry's eyes had bolted up by then and he began to inspect the Boleyn man as he followed Mr. Johnson to the inventory room.

As they stepped in, Thomas Boleyn took notice of all the different types of chairs and tables the shop had. Some were basic and repetitive, other's did seem to have a fine mark of craftsmanship. He hoped the chest looked like the latter otherwise the trip down into this tired old town would have been in vain.

His attention was directed towards the back as he followed Johnson's finger. "There she is, one of the finest things ever made here. I'd say it's pretty sturdy and quite spacious on the inside. Of course, I'll let you decide Sir Boleyn."

Boleyn nodded. He walked towards the chest to get a closer look. There were four detailed carved lions, one on each of the four corners. From a distance and even up close they appeared to be in a pouncing position. He pursed his lips in a satisfied smirk. Anne would definitely like this detail, he thought.

He grabbed the lid by the simple silver handle. He opened it to find that the claim of spaciousness was true. It would hold at least all of Anne's finer shoes. He closed the lid up and examined the outside carvings. They were beautiful carvings of roses and spiraling vines, a feature he found to be in itself what made the chest have its finesse.

"How much for the chest?" he asked as turned around.

Johnson shrugged, "As much as you want to give me for it, the materials are basic, but the craftsmanship was long."

Boleyn looked back at the chest. The shop owner was right, the materials were pretty basic. The wood was not the finest, although it did seem to be built in a way that it would hold for years. He would not spend more than three pounds on this, it was not worth all that much, despite its beauty.

"Did you make this Sir?" he asked Mr. Johnson. Johnson shook his head.

"I was not the one who made it, it was the young man you met before me. He did everything himself. It took him almost a month, I thought him crazy. After all who needs such a fine chest in this town?"

"Well it would serve me well, how much would it cost you to have this made of wood such as mahogany and have the handle be inscribed with the initials 'AB'?

"The cost might double, especially since that is not a wood that can be obtained easily here in Edenbridge . The handle is a different story that will have to be discussed with the local blacksmith. It might come out to be pretty expensive Sir Boleyn."

Boleyn sighed. The chest was perfect, Anne would love it, but he would not pay for more than what something out of a simple shop like this one came out of. "I'm afraid that I'll be leaving the chest here then," he said in a dissatisfied tone.

Johnson nodded and suppressed a sigh as Boleyn walked out of the room and back into the foyer.

Henry having head everything, decided to play the part of dumb and deaf as he saw the two men come out of the room. Johnson stuck out his hand and Boleyn returned the gesture. Both men shook hands with Mr. Johnson saying, "It was a pleasure to have been in your assistance Sir Boleyn."

Boleyn had merely nodded and turned on his heel but not before shooting Henry a curious glance. But Henry, still playing dumb, decided not to have noticed that either.

When they both knew that Boleyn was way out of ear-shot, Johnson asked Henry the question he had been waiting for.

"You playing deaf again boy?"

* * *

It only took one day, and several demands from his tempered daughter to bring Thomas Boleyn back into Edenbrigde. Luckily for him the town was not to far from Hever to make the trip. On his way he thought of a way to possibly get that chest, without all the expense of money and dealing with stubborn townsfolk. Anne wanted it and he couldn't come back empty-handed. He had to be ever agreeable to his daughter, especially when she was currently in the attentions of the King.

Right now Anne was untouchable and she knew it and used it to her advantage. He could personally boast that he had taught her well, but sadly he didn't want to as it was costing him his sanity. Anne didn't want to be in the king's attentions, but it was crucial for their family that she be like Mary before her. Normally being a hard-hearted man he wouldn't give in to petty demands, but he felt like he at least owed Anne one thing.

On his way back down that dirt road that led to the mid-size shop, he had thought of every possible way to convince the man to sell him the dresser cheap, even with the finer materials and that inscribed silver handle. But for all of Thomas's charm and persuasion, he just knew he would never get that man to agree. Politicians recognized when a man was hard-headed, and Boleyn had instantly seen that Johnson was a man of character. Instead Boleyn decided not on some savvy persuasion, but rather on the last idea and resort that popped into his head.

******  
"How much do you pay the young man who made the chest?" he asked as he came into the shop. It was right before sunrise, and young Henry had still not made his appearance.

"Monthly he gets about £ 13, of course it depends on certain factors, such as how much he did throughout the month, and how much was sold."

Boleyn nodded, "How much would it take to lease him off you, so he can become my temporary worker?"

"That would depend, Henry is the finest worker in my shop, but I cannot sell him. He has to decide to leave with you on his own."

"Does he have anything that could hold him back? Sick parents, a family perhaps?"

Johnson sadly shook his head. "The boy's caretaker, his Aunt passed away about two months back. And as far as I know, there is no Missus in the picture."

"I guess I'll just wait and see what he says," Boleyn agreed, "will he be long?"

"Nope, he's usually an early riser. If he's late I blame his horse, that old mare is a stubborn thing. If you want Sir Boleyn, you may go see the chest once more and thoroughly make your choice."

Boleyn gave him a curt nod and left towards the curtain hidden room. Once inside Johnson sighed. He was going to lose his best worker today, and that made him somewhat sad. No doubt Henry would say yes, recently the boy had his mind made up about leaving the town and heading down south, claiming he had estranged family there.

Just as Johnson was about to turn and head into the back room, the shop's front door opened to show a disheveled Henry. The young man coughed and sputtered a good morning, before Johnson could ask him what was wrong.

"Just that old mare," Henry claimed running a hand through his red hair, "it nearly threw me off. Now, I'm not the best rider, but I sure as hell say it wasn't my fault she started to go crazy on me."

Johnson gave a hearty laugh. "Why don't you just sell the thing, and make a quick shilling out of her?"

"Can't," Henry shook his head, "it belongs to Mrs. Hutchinson, one of the few things that's left of her husband. Besides, that horse was the one Mr. Hutchison taught me to ride in, I just can't sell it."

Johnson gave him a shrug of the shoulders. "Eh, if it's old, get rid of it, and buy something new. At least that's what I always say."

Henry grinned but shook his head. "I don't believe in selling something that belongs to someone else Mr. Johnson." The boy's blue eyes steeled over for bit before they returned to their usual relaxed state. "So …" he began, "has anyone come in?"

"Just Sir Boleyn, who came back with an interesting proposition for you."

"For me?" Henry asked bewildered.

"Of course you boy!" Johnson loudly claimed, "He liked the chest, he wants to find a way to take it back with him with it being too costly. At least that's what I gather from that tone of voice he's been using. I've met plenty of men that try to persuade me to sell them something cheap, Boleyn is no exception."

"What preposition does he have for me?" Henry posed trying to stop Johnson from unnecessarily rambling.

"Let him tell you, I'm sure he's going to come right out any minute."

And as if summoned, Thomas Boleyn walked right out of the inventory room with a huge, politicians smile plastered on his face. Henry dipped his head in respect as he came into the foyer. Once again Boleyn could have sworn he had seen this man somewhere else, but shook his head as he remembered what he was here for.

"Just the man I wanted to see," he claimed, "that's a beautiful chest you made there young man, tell me, would it be impossible for you to make another one using mahogany?"

Henry shrugged, placing one foot in front of the other as he took his thinking stance. Boleyn eyed him carefully.

"I might be able too," the boy finally admitted as he placed one of his hands behind his neck, "I've never worked with any other wood other than the native one that can be obtained here."

Henry gave Johnson a side glance, Johnson raised his eyebrows in amusement. How could anyone think that Henry would have worked with such an expensive and imported wood such as mahogany? Johnson tried to contain a chuckle. Henry might be a fine worker, but he was not a professional, and both he and Henry knew that. Still, his response did stop Boleyn from asking him to come work for him.

"Well how can you say you're not good then if you've never worked with it? Who knows, you might it easier than you think." Boleyn brought his head out forward, his eyes glistening with conviction.

"Well …." Henry paused. "I cannot just leave Mr. Johnson."

"No Henry, don't let me stop you, make your own choice," Johnson told him with an unusual warm smile. Henry furrowed his brows and gave it a thought. He couldn't just leave Mr. Johnson and his work behind. Although the premise of working for an important man did boost his ego a bit, he couldn't just leave in a heartbeat, especially after Mr. Johnson's generosity towards him.

"I …" he locked eyes with Boleyn before turning his head back to Johnson. Johnson mouthed a 'go for it boy,' and again smiled. Still Henry could not make up his mind.

Boleyn scowled. He was not a man of patience, and the boy was taking to long to make a simple choice.

"Go for it Henry," Johnson said breaking the tension, "I'll be fine, I have other workers, and though you will be sorely missed, this is your chance, don't let me stop you."

Henry's eyes darted up to look at the older man. Henry nodded at him. This was technically Johnson's way of saying he wasn't going to be mad with the choice he made, and the offer did have an appeal. And of course, he would be back so it wasn't a permanent thing.

Henry cleared his throat and deepened his voice a tad. "I will take you up on that offer then Sir Boleyn, when should I get ready to leave?"

Boleyn smiled, his smooth voice rang out with, "By tomorrow young man, I'll be back to fetch you. Will you come here in the morning?"

Henry cocked his head, yes he would come here to say goodbye and possibly give Mr. Johnson something as a temporary parting gift.

"Sure," he agreed, "I'll be here and ready to go with you."

***  
That night Henry ate quietly while Mrs. Hutchison fiddled away her needle and handiwork. He had brought home the chair he had made her and that was the one she was sitting on. The clack of the old woman's needle was a steady rhythm for Henry as he ate.

Occasionally he would look out the window and catch a glimpse of the moon through the cloudy sky. He thought about the day. Today he had been given a great chance. If he got more money he could easily make the trip down to Richmond and stay there for a while. This would probably be the best choice he could ever make, if he got more money and maybe dressed the part of a Duke, he might be able to convince someone at least.

As he put his spoon down and swallowed his last bit of soup, he cleared his throat and began saying, "I have some good news and bad news Mrs. Hutchinson."

Mrs. Hutchinson looked up, her murky eyes finding Henry's vivid blue ones. "What's the good news Hal?"

"Well I was offered the chance to go work at Hever Castle, Sir Boleyn offered it himself."

"Did he now?" she questioned a smile playing on her thin lips. Henry grinned.

"Yes, I leave tomorrow, which is the bad news."

"Why is that bad Hal?"

"Because I'll be leaving you alone. I know how you need help around the house and with the stable, but I can't let this chance slip by. Who knows, I might even come back a really wealthy man from what Boleyn might pay me."

_'Well a wealthier man anyways_,' he thought with a grimace.

Mrs. Hutchinson gave him a soft laugh. "Then go ahead then, you have my blessing and I'm sure Susan would have given you the same."

_'You have no idea,'_ he thought, _'except she gave me the blessing of becoming king._'

"Yes, I'm sure she would have," he agreed

* * *

Wooooo! I got a chapter down for this story, despite school & stuff. :p

I'm thinking of re-writing my other story, so I might not update that one for a while.

Anyways, I hope you liked it, (: R&R?

- Mimi (owls-and-asters)


	3. Azure & Russet

The early rays of the pink dawn streamed through the windows of Richmond. The rays of the warm sun illuminated the richly adorned hallways and the finely polished marble floors. But all the beauty of the palace could not rival what it contained inside.

Kneeling in the small chapel of the palace was Queen Katherine veiled in the black of mourning. She prayed on the cool floor while on her knees silently, only her nimbly moving lips could indicate that she was indeed at prayer. As her graceful fingers moved on her rosary, she prayed to the Virgin to be blessed with the possibility of one day giving the king a living son.

She would be turning forty-two come December, and already she worried that the change might come soon. Katherine was no fool. She knew that someday she would actually be barren, because despite what Henry thought she had still not gone through the change. She still bled every month much like her younger rival.

She had been at prayer for almost an hour. She had come before sunrise, while the mist had still covered the ground, and her bare feet would have still felt the freshness of the night before through the cobblestones. As brighter sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, the ever regal and still beautiful queen kissed the ground before standing. She dipped her head in acknowledgment to the Blessed Mother before she turned to leave.

She would go back and get ready for Mass. She would dress up like the queen she still was and join her husband in prayer. It was the only thing that kept her sane now. Knowing that despite her husband's wandering eyes, she was still his wife, she was still his queen, and her daughter was still his heir.

And she would not allow that little Boleyn harlot to change that.

* * *

With the promise of a new day, Henry had risen with a youthful cheerfulness. He had preened himself carefully, making sure no such wrinkle was found on his shirt. He had packed up the night before. It had been hard going back to the Cornwallis house to gather the rest of his things, but he had done it.

In a way it had felt right. It had been sort of like a goodbye for him. As he had walked in, he had smiled for it would have been the last time he would ever walk in to the house. Although the job with Boleyn wasn't permanent, he had already considered and even planned to sell the house. Now, he wasn't confident that he would ever become the Prince of England, or heck, even the king, but he knew that he was going to come back with a little more wealth than he now possessed. He would not need the house that confused him ever so. He would sell it, or even give it to some family.

Then, he planned, he would work and possibly find himself a wife. A smart, witty and humorous woman to share his life with. But that would be until later, he thought as he threw his satchel over his shoulder. He was ready to leave this place behind for a while, maybe start a new, meet some new people, gain experience outside of this little town.

He couldn't say he was not sad to be leaving. He was. He had grown up here; his whole life had been here. In a way, no matter where he went, or if he ever came back, Edenbridge and well … Susan and George, would always be a part of him.

And so would Mrs. Hutchinson, who was, as of right now, gushing over him.

"Oh you do look so handsome Hal, I wish Susan were here to see you, she would be so proud of you!" she gushed as she gave him a warm smile.

Henry grabbed the back of his neck and awkwardly muttered, "I'm sure she would have been … I do miss her."

Mrs. Hutchinson nodded. "We all do. George and Susan were always so lovely, the perfect example of a marriage."

"Well not so much, they fought sometimes," Henry added. Mrs. Hutchinson laughed. "Like any other couple I suppose dear."

Henry shrugged.

"You know Hal, Susan once told me something about you …"

Henry tensed up. His palms began to sweat. Did she know anything about … well The Thing?

"About?" he asked tentatively.

"Well she told me once that you were going to be destined for great things. That you were going to become a great person one day, an admirable and loved man. I had my doubts, for at seven you were quite the trouble maker, always getting into everyone's way and poking your nose into things that you shouldn't have."

He laughed remembering his obnoxious childhood years. He was no adult yet, but he wasn't that bratty little kid either.

"But then as you grew you developed this air about you. You grew up so handsomely, with your comely features and your shining hair. You grew tall and had that leadership quality to you. Then when your uncle died you assumed responsibility for your aunt like a grown man, it really was a different world then from when you were seven. You grew up finely is what I mean. And maybe Susan was right, you are destined for greatness, you can get there, you are smart enough to do so, you work hard and you can charm a rock if you had too." She threw him a cheeky smile. Henry blushed.

"Well, thank you Mrs. Hutchinson."

"Don't mention it boy. And don't you dare even think about feeling bad or like you owe me something because of what I'm going to give you."

He gave her a quizzical look, with one sharp eyebrow raised and his mouth to the side. She merely turned to go outside, opening the door and letting the cool wind and the sound of her husband's old mare fill the room.

She pointed to the old mare, the one her husband had named Madge, and beckoned Henry to come near.

"Oh no, no, I cannot accept that, it was Mr. Hutchinson's mare!" he exclaimed.

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Hutchinson claimed, "You are good with the horse, besides I can no longer care for her. Robert taught you on her and thus she is yours. Robert would understand you were like a third son to him."

"But, then how would … I mean, you need to go places Mrs. Hutchinson, surely you couldn't live without Madge …."

"I can and I will," the old woman said determinedly. "That thing's a pain to me anyways. Never liked me much either. Take her, she's yours."

"I don't know how I can repay you ma'am, really I don't …."

"There is no repayment, just go out and do your Aunt Susan and Uncle George proud."

* * *

She tapped her fingers steadily on the table. The hours grew long and dreary and she was stuck at Hever instead of being at court. She had not wanted to come to Hever, although she did love the country, but she felt that she had too. The king's attention was more than she wanted, but sadly she had to have it.

Her father and uncle were merciless, first by throwing Mary, although to Anne her sister really didn't need to be thrown, then her at the English king. And all for what? For glory and riches to be added to the Howard/Boleyn name.

She hated it but she played her part well. So well that her father could not deny her a request. She had him dangling in her fingers and was stringing him like a puppet. She seemed to have known that, and thus, she made petty demands all over. Her most recent had had him desperately searching for a chest for her shoes or 'gifts'.

"It has to be the finest thing you ever see, with a mark of finesse that is incomparable. Something that I could proudly show to His Majesty, and so I can keep the gifts he presents to me. Something that would catch my eye father," she had claimed, "Something that just shows how much grace the Boleyn family has."

And because of that she sat waiting, and waiting until her father returned from Edenbridge, where he claimed he had found just the right …. man to complete such a request. At first Anne had been quizzical, she asked for a chest, not a man! But after her father had described the chest to her, she had grown mesmerized.

It was late afternoon when she heard the hooves of her father's horses return and make their way up the cobblestone path that led into Hever. Rising quickly, she moved over to the window to see if her father had indeed brought back a man or a chest. Smoothing her skirts, she cast her eyes on her father's figure and then scanned for any sign of anyone or anything else. Seconds later, a mare carrying a red-head appeared behind her father.

"The king!" was her fist thought as she saw the man. He was wearing the clothes of the commoner, but that didn't faze her. King Henry often liked to disguise himself to surprise her; this time would be no different than the rest if he had it his way.

She moved quickly up the stairs to feign that she was unaware of the king's presence and the fancy herself up just a bit. As she locked herself in her room, her head instantly turned to her vanity. From a distance she smoothed out her dark curls and pinched her cheeks to give herself a faint blush. No doubt her father would be fetching her any instant to go downstairs to be courted by the king.

She may not have completely liked being in the king's attentions, but she always felt the need to look desirable when in his presence. Anne knew she was no beauty, but that didn't stop her from trying. And so she paced silently in her room and practiced her smiling. She knew exactly how to use her eyes, but her smile had always been her flaw. It was a little off to the side, crooked she called it, and looked more like a smirk than a sweet coy smile.

She waited five minutes, but there was no summon or no fetching. Starting to grow impatient she pressed her ear to her door to see if there was any sound emitting from downstairs. She heard the faint voice of her father talking to her mother. Then she heard a new voice. Unfamiliar and velvety, not the king's …. But it was somewhat similar through the muffling door.

She opened the door slightly to hear a little better.

"…. The young man will be staying in the stables while he completes his work Elizabeth, we've agreed on that. It will be easier for him to work at all hours that way," she heard her father say.

"But Thomas, maybe he can stay here in the servants quarters, a fine young man shouldn't stay with the horses." Elizabeth disagreed quietly.

"No Madam, I'm fine with the arrangement as it is," the unfamiliar voice said. Anne inched closer, that voice sounded so familiar yet different. The tone, the way it moved up and down with each word, Anne could swear it was the king, but then again she knew it wasn't.

She crept out of her room and slowly made her way across the hall. Silently she went down the stairs, picking up her skirts so she wouldn't make a single sound. She reached the mid-way of the stair case before she saw her father and the strange young man with their backs to her. She saw her mother give her father a warm smile before she went back to her sewing in the other room, and then saw when her father turned to face the young red-head.

"You will start working tomorrow. I've already sent a man to fetch some mahogany for me. A royal blacksmith is already working on the handle. How long did you say it took you to finish that chest?"

"About two months sir, give or take."

Her father nodded. "Alright. Come, let me show you to where you'll be staying. Your mare should already be there, and so should your stuff. Come along now, Cornwallis."

She watched her father turn on his heel and begin to leave. She was going to start making her way up the stairs again before she made the tiniest creaking sound as she was about to turn. She looked down again to find that the young man had heard her and had looked up.

Their eyes locked, and azure met russet for the very first time.

* * *

Hello lovelies! Hope you enjoyed this little ... filler chapter as you may call it. (:

It's not much, but I had the writing bug and just had to write something, and thus, this chapter was born.

Please leave a review or something saying whether or not I'm getting the Anne Boleyn character right, I feel she's too ... eh ... :b

Love you _all_ as always,

- Mimi (owls-and-asters)


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